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Mort Heinman, has returned after a month in Florianopolis, Brazil. He has dual citizenship as his mother's last name is Pereira. 

"When can we expect the next book?" asks Mort

"Fuck you, asshole! I can't write anymore. I'm taking downers. I never realized there was such bliss with a bad memory."

I open a bottle. We're sitting in my backyard. I don't give a shit. I'm not driving. Mort doesn't give a shit. He isn't driving. If worse comes to worse, he can call a taxi. He has inherited sufficient money so he can live the rest of his life as a nomad in as many places that catch his fancy.

"How's Brazil?"

"You don't want to know. It has exceeded my expectations. It is as close to paradise that we will know on earth even with COVID."

I throw my glass to the ground.

"Don't fuck with me! You're bullshitting?"

"You're a sorry fuck," chortles Mort. "Life's too short to condemn yourself to such misery."

"But I'm a pathetic fuck. I could be in the most beautiful place in the world and it would be the ugliest experience of my existence."

Mort closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"You would forget all this bullshit," he says. "You would be traveling, eating well, drinking better wines, playing tennis and screwing a variety of chicks. You would relegate Brownsville to a distant memory."

I nod.

"So there's hope. I can still find a short-lived salvation in a cold beer and a hamburger."

It isn't the anecdote we expected, but it is the anecdote I wrote. The good thing about drinking early is that you go to bed early. You hit the sack knowing that you won't be too hungover tomorrow. 

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